


The Birds and the Bees

by BonnyMcL



Category: Historical Farm (UK TV)
Genre: Bees, Chickens, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 06:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14395872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonnyMcL/pseuds/BonnyMcL
Summary: How many double entendres does it take to build a chicken run?Based partly on Alex Langlands' 2017 book, "Craeft", about traditional crafts.





	The Birds and the Bees

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER:  
> This is a work of fiction and not one word of it is true. Oh, except that Alex Langlands really lives in Wales. And really keeps chickens and bees and makes traditional straw skeps and practises green woodworking and...forget it.
> 
> I hope it makes you laugh.

The Birds and the Bees

 

Rain spattered out of the heavy shower clouds as Peter drove under the tall white rugby-post arches of the new Severn Bridge. Through the fans of cables stretching out on either side, he could make out the muddy estuary of the river below. Now, with half the long drive behind him and a late (most definitely not great) motorway services breakfast inside him, he began to trace the motorway past Cardiff and down into the Swansea Valley. It had been wet on and off most of the way, but as his route left the major roads and passed onto narrower ones bordered by drystone walling, the light strengthened, until finally he bounced down a long track splashed with puddles from the April rain, and scrunched onto the patch of gravel and grass at the front of his friend Alex’s cottage.

 

Leaving his car parked at a careless angle, Peter approached the front door and rapped firmly upon it. Getting no answer, he stepped back and rested his hands on his hips, wrinkling his brow in puzzlement. Alex had definitely said he’d be in.

He knocked again, and scuffed at the ground with the toe of his boot, searching the house for a sign that he’d been heard. Shading his eyes, he tapped on one of the front windows and peered into the interior, but the room was empty and the house remained unresponsive. 

Peter rubbed the back of his neck and considered flinging a handful of gravel against the bedroom window, but it occurred to him that Alex would probably disapprove, and in any case, the chances of Alex being upstairs in bed this late in the morning were minimal. Instead he made his way around the side of the building, and there, sitting on the back step in a shaft of sunlight with the breeze blowing through his hair, he discovered his friend, stitching the last few inches of a traditional straw skep and whistling _Under the Greenwood Tree,_ so caught up in the control and rhythm of his craft that he was oblivious to Peter’s presence. 

Peter advanced until his shadow fell across Alex’s face. Sensing the change in the light, Alex paused in his work and looked up. “Sorry,” he smiled, setting the bone _fid_ aside, “I was miles away.” The smile faded as he dipped a hand into his jacket and checked his pocket-watch. “You’re late, Peter.”

Peter shrugged apologetically and looked away across the garden, where daffodils danced in the wind at the edge of a small meadow of mixed grasses. Petals sprinkled the ground under a cluster of fruit trees, and behind its chickenwire fence, the vegetable patch already sprouted with onions and kale. 

Alex got up and patted his friend consolingly on the back. “Never mind, Peter. Coffee?” Without waiting unnecessarily for an answer, he went into the slate-roofed house and filled a cafetière. Soon he brought out a rustic wooden tray which he set down ostentatiously: on it were set two steaming earthenware mugs, along with a plate of home-made oatcakes.

“You made that yourself?” Peter commented, admiring the tray.

“Of course,” said Alex proudly. “We are makers; we live in a world of making. Craft defines us, we need it, it’s good for us.” Warming to his theme, he went on. “The wood was reclaimed from some old discarded panelling, and the wickerwork is all sustainably sourced willow.” 

Peter took an oatcake and bit into it. It was crisp and biscuity, and the garden sparkled in the spring sunshine.

“After we’ve had a drink,” said Alex lightly, sipping at his coffee, “I want to talk to you about the birds and the bees.” Peter coughed and nearly choked on his oatcake. He looked at Alex uncertainly.

“My poultry concern, Peter, and my hives,” said Alex seriously. “Why, what did you think I meant?” He gave his friend a critical glance.

Peter decided to change the subject, so he pointed to a patch of ground, carefully tilled, where long green shoots were pushing out of the dark earth. “What’s that you’re growing there?”

“Oh,” answered Alex disingenuously; “that’s where I’ve been sowing my wild oats.” Peter looked at him askance.

His friend frowned. “You’ve got such a dirty mind,” he said accusingly. “It’s a natural food source for my chickens. Who it’s time you met,” he continued. “Interestingly, the surest way to attract them is to offer them their favourite food.” He paused meaningfully. “But beer’s not really good for them.” 

Before his friend could object to this pointed joke, Alex jumped up and disappeared into the cottage, returning with a small glass dish of natural yogurt. “The chickens love this,” he explained, pressing it into Peter’s hand. “I guarantee it won’t be long before they come running!” He was right. A russet and black hen emerged from behind a pear tree and sprinted comically towards them. She was quickly followed by another, larger hen of the same spangled plumage, and finally a third, smartly monochrome, flapped out of the hedge. The three birds plunged their beaks into the tasty treat, shaking their heads and sprinkling little white specks over Peter’s shoes. 

“Hahahahah, Peter,” laughed Alex bawdily. “Looks like you’ve managed to pull a few birds for once!” He stroked the first chicken, which was carelessly flicking more yogurt up Peter’s sleeve. “This is Bramley,” he said. “The larger Pheasant Fowl there is Quince, and the Light Sussex, she’s called Holly. Watch out for her; she can be a bit prickly. There should be one more,” he mused, scanning the garden. He shrugged. “She’ll be somewhere about.”

Peter, who was getting tired of being yogurt-coated, put down the bowl and wiped his hand on his trousers. He’d just picked up his coffee mug again when there began the most appalling noise. It sounded like a cross between an enraged crow and a machine gun, and it went on, and on, and on.

Alex seemed unconcerned. “And there she is!” he laughed, seeing Peter’s horrified expression. “One of my hens,” he explained, “gets rather noisy when she’s about to lay an egg. Why don’t we go and take a look?” 

 

Peter reluctantly left his half-drunk coffee and the plate of oatcakes on the back step as Alex led the way, striding off across the garden towards the chicken coop. Pressing a finger to his lips, he lifted the lid of the nest boxes. “It _is_ you. I thought so.” He smiled fondly. “This is Chestnut.”

“Is it...is it okay to touch her while her egg’s getting laid?” asked Peter cautiously, not wanting to disturb the hen.

Alex winked mischievously. “Yeah, go on,” he said suggestively. “Give ‘er a stroke. ‘Ave a feel!”

Peter gave his friend a doubtful look and smoothed the brown feathers of Chestnut’s neck. The hen purred contentedly, stretched her wings, and flapped nonchalantly onto his head, where she settled herself heavily into his dark wavy hair.

“Awwww,” said Alex brightly. “She likes you! Isn’t that nice!” He put his hand into the straw and brought out the hen’s fresh new-laid egg, then looked around for somewhere to put it.

“Blast,” he said with feeling, “I left my egg-collecting basket on the kitchen table. Here, Peter,” he went on, handing him the egg, “hold that for me for a minute, and I’ll see if there’s any more.” Peter, somewhat perturbed by the large chicken on his head, distractedly slipped the egg into his jacket pocket. 

Alex indicated the next nesting box to his friend: “You want to look in this one?” Gingerly, Peter parted the straw. “Deeper!” Alex urged salaciously. “Put your hand right in!” Peter did so, and soon a second egg lay cupped in his hand.

“You know how to tell if it’s fresh?” Peter shook his head – very carefully, because of the chicken – so Alex continued. “You hold the egg up to your ear, then you shake it gently, and listen.”

Peter did as his friend instructed. “What should it sound like?” he asked, agitating the egg harder.

“Nothing,” said Alex matter-of-factly. “An old egg would’ve absorbed some air and you’d hear all the stuff inside sloshing about, but I check the boxes every day so this one should be nice and...”

Chestnut chose that moment to shift her position on Peter’s head, digging her claws into his scalp. He winced, opened his hand and dropped the egg.

“Tch,” said Alex, looking disparagingly at the eggy puddle on the grass. “Waste of a good egg, Peter.” He scooped a couple more out of the boxes. “Put these ones straight in your pockets where they’ll be safe.” Watching his friend tuck them carefully away, he added, “but I think my favourite eggs are the ones chicks come out of. Chicks grow into pullets, pullets get sold at the end of season fair, and – _voilà –_ my poultry concern pays for its own upkeep.” He rubbed his hands in satisfaction at the thought. “Myrtle’s got a brood at the moment,” he said, indicating a nesting pen down by the raspberry canes. “Come and see.”

 

Crouching down quietly beside the nesting box, Alex softly raised the lid and ruffled Myrtle’s feathers sentimentally with his fingers. Clucking, she raised herself up to reveal the fluffy grey-and-yellow chicks nestling under her wings. Putting up a hand to check on Chestnut, still firmly settled in his hair, Peter got down on his hands and knees beside his friend and regarded the baby birds with affection. “So sweet...” he murmured.

Alex gestured encouragingly: “You can pick one up if you want to,” and Peter, reaching into the nest, gently lifted the smallest of the chicks into the palm of his hand, stroking its soft down. He smiled. “It’s so soft and warm.”

Alex sniggered provocatively, a thought occurring to him. “Hey Peter, how’s it feel to get your hands on a hot chick?!”

Peter pretended not to hear, and popped the chick back with its mother. He was determined that nothing – especially not Alex’s risqué sense of humour – was going to distract him from observing the cute little creatures. So focused was he on their antics, his surroundings faded to the edge of his awareness. But in the midst of his reverie, he was jerked abruptly back to everyday consciousness by a sharp, repeated pain in the backside. No, it wasn’t Alex! 

Yelping, Peter leapt up and whipped his head around. There, rearranging her feathers with a confrontational look in her eye stood Holly, the Light Sussex hen Alex had introduced earlier. She clucked disapprovingly at Peter, who rubbed his smarting rear and threw an injured look at his friend.

“I did warn you about her,” Alex remarked unsympathetically, as the chicken attempted to nip Peter’s ankles. “But you mustn’t take it personally. It’s what chickens do. They peck to establish hierarchy.”

Peter scratched his ear and tried to decide whether this implied Holly thought she was more important than he was, but it was hard to think clearly with her still biting at his heels. He started to step this way and that, shaking his feet to try and escape her sharp beak. Unsettled by this unpredictable motion, Chestnut finally unfolded her wings and rose from his head. Peter’s relief at being freed from this uncomfortable burden was short-lived, for as she flapped off into a gooseberry bush, he felt a warm stream of something run down the back of his head, and an unpleasant yet familiar smell caught at the back of his throat. Scowling at the hen hiding among the leaves, he muttered bitterly, “I hope Alex uses you to clean a chimney!”

“Quick! Over here!” said Alex imperatively, catching hold of Peter’s arm and dragging him over to the compost heap.

“It would be nice,” Peter sniffed, “if you offered me something to help clean it off.”

“I’m _going_ to clean it off,” said Alex firmly, pulling a piece of rag out of his pocket and beginning to scrub at the manure determinedly. “But we can’t waste it. That’s top quality fertilizer, that is.” He paused for a moment and examined the back of his friend’s head critically. “I wonder if it works on hair?”

 

Once he was satisfied as much of the manure as possible had been recovered for composting, Alex wiped his hands, tucked the piece of rag away, and fixed his friend with a challenging stare. “Great, so you’ve seen all the hens,” he declared. “And now I want to show you my big cock.” He moved behind a large shrub and reached down. Peter’s eyes widened apprehensively and he took a step back.

“Here he is,” said Alex, lifting a large rooster into his arms.

“Ohhhh, I see what you mean.” Peter breathed out heavily in relief. “Wow, he’s a big boy.” - Alex laughed coarsely at this. “What’s his name?” Peter went on.

“Willie.” Peter was unable to suppress a snort of laughter, but Alex raised his eyebrows and gave him a most old-fashioned look. “Perfectly good Scottish name, Peter, you should know that as well as I do!” He smoothed the cockerel’s feathers solicitously. “Look how he puffs himself up when I stroke him,” he winked pruriently. “He gets overexcited if I rub any faster. He’s a bit pushy too,” he added, putting the bird down as it started to become restless. “But that’s a good thing in a way; ’cause the hens, they prefer a dominant cock.” 

Peter wondered whether the coffee they’d left on the back step of the house was still hot enough to drink, but when he looked back across the garden, he saw that Quince and Bramley were sipping out of his mug. Noticing his pockets felt heavy, he patted them questioningly. Something yielded, and there was a cracking sound. Only then did he recall the eggs he had placed in there earlier, which were now, unfortunately, rather scrambled.

By now he was feeling tired of chickens. Rubbing his hairy chin, he addressed his friend hopefully, “You’ve never thought of keeping pigs?”

“No, not really,” said Alex with disinterest as they returned to the house and shooed the birds away from the coffee cups. “Greedy, dirty animals. By the way, what _is_ that you’ve got down the back of your trousers, and are you at those oatcakes again?” He wrinkled his nose at the dark patch still staining Peter’s hair. “And, friend to friend, you smell terrible.”

Peter hid the biscuit behind his back and opened his mouth to point out that this was Alex’s chicken’s fault, but then he remembered the proportion of their arguments that Alex tended to win and shut it again. Alex rubbed his hands together briskly. “Right, it’s time we put you to work, Peter. Let’s get this new chicken run put together.”

 

Alex had been busy sourcing material from the surrounding trees and hedgerows, and had collected it together alongside an area of short grass sprinkled with daisies. “I got up early to get this lot ready,” he told Peter. “You could call it my _morning wood!”_ Lifting a tarpaulin aside, he revealed, laid out beside the timber, all the tools they might need, some relatively new, but others bearing the patina of age, having had previous owners before Alex discovered them at one of the _vide greniers_ sales he frequented whenever he visited France.

“Hand axe,” Alex began, affectionately casting his eye over the traditional implements. “Auger, chisel, mallet, claw hammer, twybil, froe...”

“You sound like a thesaurus,” said Peter humorously. He stepped astride Alex’s antique shave horse and, clutching an imaginary pair of reins, clicked his tongue.

“Want to ride it, do you?!” commented Alex in a lewd way that had not crossed Peter’s mind. “Well, keep your hands off my tool!” He jerked a thumb and indicated to his friend to dismount. “I’ve just had the blade of that drawknife honed, and I don’t trust you with sharp objects. Now,” he went on, “the erection is going to take place here. So what I need you to do first: grab one of those thick, sturdy poles - I cut two of them from fallen trees and salvaged the others from an old fence. They’re going to be our corner posts.”

Peter raised up the first of the heavy timbers. “Are we going to set them in concrete?”

“Concrete?” said Alex witheringly. “There is no greater demonstration of intelligence and resourcefulness, Peter, than a man’s ability to build a strong and robust structure over his chickens’ heads using entirely organic materials sourced from the immediate environment.” He handed his friend a post maul. “Just poke it in the hole, and then bang it as hard as you can. And remember,” he added sagely, “it’s vital to keep it firm and erect.” Peter tentatively inserted the pole into the pit. Alex was so straight-faced, he couldn’t work out whether he was being smutty or not.

 

Once the four corners were in position, a gate post needed to be added. Alex had already put the gate together, using planks a traditional sawmill had cut for him from a tree he’d felled. “The edges could do with smoothing down, though,” he admitted, handing Peter the scraper. “This is what they used to use before sandpaper. You just rub it up and down,” he directed. “You can be quite vigorous. Harder! Oh _yes!”_ he gasped with feeling; “that’s _fantastic!”_

Peter puffed heavily and stopped for a moment to discard his jacket. “I’m really hot,” he breathed.

“If you say so!” Alex smirked, and waggled his eyebrows in a vulgar way. 

Once Alex deemed the gate had received sufficient attention, he fetched a pair of sturdy, glossy black hinges. “Hand-forged, these are,” he told his friend proudly.

Peter looked around and waved his hands questioningly. “Electric screwdriver..?”

“No no no,” replied Alex censoriously. “Power tools are noisy and consume electricity, and in any case they could damage these beautiful hand-finished fittings. This is a hand job.” He went on loftily. “It is the hands, the subtlest of all machines, that are the crucial tools in this process, rather than a reliance on any fancy equipment.” Using his hand drill, he formed a neat pilot hole and then held out his hand impatiently: “Come on Peter, give me a screw.” 

Alex stood back and admired the attached gate. “I’m happy,” he noted with approval, “that’s really very well hung.” Peter lifted one end of a long coppice pole which was to form one of the frame’s horizontals. “Are we going to screw these too,” he enquired innocently.

Alex tutted. “Dear me, no. That’s quite enough screwing for one day. As far as possible, I want to use traditional green woodworking methods, so I’ve jointed the ends, and” – he held up a basket of wooden sticks significantly – “we’ll peg them.” 

The pegs were all shapes and sizes: irregular, curved, knotted and of varying thickness. “These aren’t all perfect,” Alex admitted, “but they were the best I could source from the limited woodland available. They’re very _hedgerow.”_ He brought a step-ladder and, grasping the other end of the first horizontal pole, sent Peter up it to locate the tenon of the corner post into its mortice. Then he passed his friend a mallet.

“Grasp it firmly,” he instructed, giving Peter the first of the wooden pegs, “then ram it down the hole, hard as you can! That’s excellent!” he said as the joint drew together. “Now bring the step-ladder down to my end, and help me get it up.” 

The frame of the run completed, with thinner poles forming cross-pieces, the two friends prepared to tackle the springy wire mesh needed to cover it. Peter, again on the ladder, this time with one of the mesh rolls, pushed it across the roof of the structure, giggling as it rolled back on itself again. He batted at it with his hand.

“I think to a certain extent you’re trying to defy physics there,” Alex commented. “It needs to be fixed down at one end. Take a few of these staples, stop goofing around up there and get hammering!”

Peter obediently started to secure the first section of wire. “I’m surprised you’re not thatching the run,” he joked, smiling at the tall conical straw roof of Alex’s bee skep shelter.

“Actually,” said Alex, “when the weather gets hotter, I thought about uprooting some tansy to cover the roof and give some shade. He added crudely, “You know how much I like to get my hands on a nice bit of thatch.”

 

Peter swatted the air as he felt something buzzing brush past his cheek, and accidentally dropped a handful of staples down Alex’s neck. “Oi, Peter!” Alex shouted, shaking them irritably out of his jacket. “Careful, mate!”

“I was _buzzed,”_ said Peter defensively. He anchored a few more staples, then distractedly let go of the hammer to brush at something he could feel crawling in his hair. It hummed angrily and lifted off.

“Bees,” said Alex with interest, looking about him. There were quite a number of them, dancing in the sunlight that filtered brightly through the new leaves.

Peter huffed. “It’s not fair, Alex. First your chickens attack me, and now your bees.”

Alex shook his head. “If they were my bees they’d be busy foraging for food.” He observed them studiously. “I recognize this behaviour! These are scout bees, looking for a nest site. And that can only mean one thing...” 

Suddenly caught up in one of his most consuming interests, Alex dropped the final roll of wire mesh on one side and began to track the flying insects. Following their movement led him down to the end of the garden, Peter a few paces behind him. There in the hedge stood a mature oak tree on which the acid-green leaves were just unfolding, and from a little way up it came a loud buzzing-noise.

Peter scratched his head and began to think. First of all he said to himself: “That buzzing-noise means something. You don’t get a buzzing-noise like that, just buzzing and buzzing, without its meaning something. If there’s a buzzing-noise, these bees must be making that buzzing-noise, and it’s so loud a buzzing-noise there must be a lot of them.” 

Alex of course had guessed exactly what it was, and pointed excitedly into the lower branches. “There,” he breathed. “A swarm. It’s early in the year for one, but then it’s warm today.”

Peter peered at the limb of the tree, from which a long dark mass hung heavily down. It seemed to shimmer as the surface of it rippled gently with moving bees. Feeling something on his hand, he glanced down. One of the insects was making its ticklish way across his fingers.

Alex examined it more closely. “A Welsh brown bee!” he exclaimed, delighted. “A good _British_ bee. Not one of those continental imports,” he added with scorn.

Peter looked surprised at this. “That’s oddly... _Brexit,_ coming from you.”

Alex snorted in disgust and studied the mass of bees again, glancing up at the sky where the shower clouds of the morning were starting to regroup. “If we can just capture them before it rains, they’ll make the perfect new colony for my apiary. We now need a ladder,” he ordered, waggling a finger authoritatively. “It’s critical that we have a ladder. Peter, there’ll be one in the outbuilding over there.” While his friend retrieved the item in question, Alex returned to the back step and brought over the skep he had finished earlier. 

“Positioning the ladder could be a matter of life or death,” said Alex threateningly, balancing it precariously on the very top of a thorn tree just breaking into pretty white blossom. Tucking the skep under one arm, he stepped up onto the first rung. He mounted the second, the third, and then...

“Ow,” winced Alex, doubling up overdramatically. He looked dolefully at his friend. “It’s killing my back. It’s no good; you’ll have to do it, Peter.”

Peter grumbled inwardly. “How long is it going to be before I get stung?” he asked.

“Well,” said Alex ironically, “you won’t feel anything after about the fourth, so you’ll be alright. I’m joking!” he added, patting his friend consolingly on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine. They’re at their least defensive when they swarm.”

Peter still looked doubtful. “I’m nervous about them getting up my trousers.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Alex reassured him. “It’s quite unlikely, but if it should happen, I’ve got some cider vinegar I can rub into your groin.” He looked wide-eyed at Peter, who had emitted a sort of strangled cough. _“What?!_ It neutralizes the toxins in the sting!” 

Alex handed the skep over, and steadied the ladder as his friend began to climb. “Feeling pretty sturdy,” he said encouragingly. “And of course it’s also a test of your acrobatic fitness,” he added, as Peter stopped to catch his breath. “Obviously it’s dangerous, but at the same time, if you just take care, make sure your footings are good, and that all the branches you’re leaning on are nice and safe, it’s actually a pretty good workout for the body.”

So Peter climbed and he climbed and he climbed. “When you get close enough,” Alex explained, “what you need to do, is hold the skep underneath the swarm, and then shake the branch so that they fall into it.” 

Peter remembered there was a Winnie-the-Pooh story that had involved a situation somewhat reminiscent of his current one, and something that sounded like one of Pooh’s songs came into his head:

_It’s a very funny thought that, if People were Bees,_

_They’d build their nests in houses, not trees._

_And that being so (if the Bees were Men),_

_I shouldn’t have to climb a ladder again._

He was getting rather tired of being sent up ladders by this time, so the Complaining Song seemed appropriate. It was difficult to maintain his grip on the ladder and keep hold of the skep as well. But he was nearly there now. He could see the swarm, he could hear the swarm, but he couldn’t quite reach the swarm. Now, if he just stretched a little further...

_Whoops!_

“Oh help!” said Peter, losing his balance just as he reached out and started to shake the branch from which the swarm hung. He slipped off the ladder, bumped against a couple of branches and landed in a bramble bush. There was a loud snapping sound.

“Hey!” said Alex crossly. “That’s my bramble cane you’ve sat on. I’ve been nurturing that for a whole year. What am I going to craft my traditional log basket with now?” 

A portion of the swarm, disturbed by the agitation of their branch, had taken off and were hurtling around the garden in a cloud of reverberation. It sounded like a helicopter landing. Peter crawled out of the bush and brushed the prickles from his nose.

“Alex!” said Peter in a loud whisper.

“Hallo?”

“I think the bees _suspect_ something!”

“What sort of thing?”

“I don’t know. But something tells me that they’re _suspicious!”_

“Perhaps they think that you’re after their honey?” This gave Alex an idea. “What about a mouthful of something?” he grinned. “We’re going to have to leave this lot to settle down for a while, so why don’t I bring out some bread and see if I can harvest a little from one of my hives?” He gave a lascivious wink. “I know you want some honey, Peter!”

 

Leaving the swarm to re-collect itself, the friends made their way back to the cottage, where Alex brought out a fresh loaf of barley bread on a wooden board and sawed several thick slices off it, handing it to Peter to carry over to the skep house. Reaching inside, Alex gently upturned the straw basket to reveal the bees crawling industriously over the beautiful undulating honeycomb. He regarded it admiringly, and recited: 

_“How doth the little busy bee_

_Improve each shining hour,_

_And gather honey all the day_

_From every opening flower._

_How skilfully she builds her cell;_

_How neat she spreads her wax,_

_And labours hard to store it well_

_With the sweet food she makes.”_

__

Fixing his friend with a critical look, he went on:

_“In works of labour or of skill,_

_I would be busy too;_

_For Satan finds some mischief still_

_For idle hands to do...” _

Peter ignored him, and pretended not to understand what was being implied. 

Alex took out his skep knife and expertly cut a piece of comb from the colony’s outer edge, taking care not to disturb the central part. “It’s like taking candy from a baby,” he smiled, hooking the honeycomb onto a piece of bread which he passed to his friend. Peter bit into it gratefully, forgetting the bramble thorns that were still stuck in his bottom. “That is absolutely stunning,” he murmured. “It’s so good...”

Alex set the skep back down in its shelter and concurred. “So _alive,_ isn’t it.” Not really caring for sweet foods himself, he took up a plain piece of bread and munched on that.

As Peter ate, a dribble of honey ran out of the comb and began to trickle down his stubbly face. A few bees from the swarm, attracted by the sweet viscous liquid, began to trouble him again. One of them buzzed loudly by his ear, hovered for a moment, and then landed on his chin.

“Ooh look!” exclaimed Alex in surprise. “That’s the queen bee!”

 

And where the queen bee settles, the swarm follows. Several worker bees soon joined her, another, and then another. What was left of the bread and honey fell from Peter’s hand, a look of panic rising in his eyes, as the swarm gathered on his chin, hundreds and then thousands of them.

“That’s amazing,” gasped Alex in awe. “A beard of bees.” He nodded respectfully. “That’s the best beard you’ve ever had, Peter. Don’t worry, my friend,” he declared boldly, seeing Peter’s distress. “In steps Alex, the skep-making beekeeper, to save you! This is the perfect opportunity for me to capture them. Stay there!” he added unnecessarily. 

Alex hurried to retrieve his new skep, fetching also a few essential pieces of beekeeping equipment. He placed the basket on the ground in front of his friend, and brandished a battered and tarnished bee smoker.

“I don’t really like using smoke,” he admitted, puffing it towards Peter’s face. “But I’m going to use just a little, just to encourage them down into the skep.”

The smoke wafted gently up Peter’s nose, where it started an itch, which became a tickle. Peter fought to suppress it, but the pressure of it built and grew. It prickled and tingled, ever intensifying, until he felt his breath draw in with short irresistible gasps. Shutting his eyes, he waited for the inevitable release. 

“Aaah...aaah...aaah...CHOOO!” Peter’s breath rushed out in a tremendous sneeze. For a moment nothing happened; then as one, the colony of bees hummed, shuddered, and plopped into the skep. And just as they did so, Alex felt the first spots of rain plash wetly onto the back of his neck. They’d been so preoccupied, they hadn’t noticed the darkening of the sky. 

“We’ve caught them just in time!” Alex cried, protectively scooping up the skepful of bees and heading for the house. “I’ll build a shelter for them later, but for now, I’ll just ease them gently into the back passage.” He placed the skep carefully down in the covered walkway between the cottage and a neighbouring outhouse, then shook his head. “I didn’t realize how late it was. You must be hungry, Peter! Come on in and I’ll get something straight in the Aga.” He put an arm warmly round his friend’s shoulders. “You’ll feel better with a big hot sausage inside you.” Winking evilly, he added, “And maybe for afters I can put a bun in the oven!” Laughing, the two friends went indoors to the farmhouse kitchen, and even as the rain still shone on the slate roof, the sun slanted through the clouds and a rainbow arched out over the countryside.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize to all my sources of material:  
> "Craeft" by Alex Langlands  
> BBC Historical Farm / Lion TV  
> Disney Corporation, copyright holders for Winnie-the-Pooh  
> and various websites.  
> Sorry everyone...
> 
> A multimedia version of this story, with pictures and links to accompanying music, can be found at http://fav.me/dc9i8mu


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